I Want to Know, Too
by skyun1c0rn
Summary: A blow to the head has made Sherlock forget some things. What started the fire? Why is he surrounded by rubble? More importantly, where is John? Why are they still alive?
1. Chapter 1

So imagine when you were in say, eighth grade. You and a friend used to write lovely little stories in a diary to each other. Then: TECHNOLOGY! You began to IM and send emails in which various pre-made characters you loved were used like puppets to act out scenes that were most similar to 4 to 10 year olds being strung out on soda, cotton candy, and pixie stix. Feeling as though that qualified you to send out similar stories-"crackfics", I believe-to the world via this "internet" thing.

Years later. Ouch. Years and years later. You feel the need to pick up some new puppets, since you're much more mature now. Hopefully you can attend them with more dignity and tell a little story with them. It's been a while, and your initial skills were...questionable.

Well, this is that. Enjoy the puppet show.

Disclaimer: Watch Sherlock through legal channels so they can make money and more Sherlock. Surprise! I'm not someone making money from it.

_**I Want to Know, Too**_

Calm Hysterics

Sherlock wrinkled his nose as he turned his head from left to right. His eyes remained closed against the warm light as the smell of fire and ash assaulted his nose and lungs. Something else hinted in the air, but he could not pinpoint it. Thoughts were running much slower than his usual kilometer per second. Presently, he was terribly groggy and his chest burned. Attempts to expand his chest and get deeper breaths were failing. Iron flavor tainted the inside of his mouth and his tongue quickly found the irregularity of the wound on his lip. Thankfully, he also found all teeth intact. Fingers and toes were all in place and wiggle ready. His hands brushed against wet tiles beneath him. The extra smell was more than water. It was necessary to open his eyes for a better assessment of his situation, as his olfactory system was failing to give him enough data on the situation. Exploring blindly with his arms around when everything said, 'Danger' seemed like a bad idea.

_Olfactory. Good word. Brain is speeding up._

Fire was not kind to eyes. Not just warmth to pull out moisture, but ashy debris to scratch. Fluttering his eyelids seemed to be the best idea to combat likely smoke and ash. Lights of red, orange, white and blue flashed and flickered against the white, burned ceiling above him and the set of locker boxes laying across his chest. Lingering in the air was mostly dust. Pieces of concrete and plastic were scattered around him. The floor and much of the debris was covered in water.

_Disaster. Police and fire men. Search light? _

A sweeping white light confirmed the last. He needed to try to get out from under the lockers. Sherlock had no intention of dieing while help was so close. Pressing against the locker did little to move it, but it did relieve pressure from his chest. He did not have the strength to move the locker, but perhaps he could move himself partially out from under it. Getting the weight off his chest should improve his chances of making it until he was found. With enough air in his lungs, he could make more noise and hopefully be located by those searching.

In his new position, the locker weighed against his pelvic bone, but his ribs were relieved. The first yell wasn't a word, just a desperate cry. Though it vibrated in his throat, it made no noise. It was only then, he noticed the quiet that surrounded him. Fires were dieing down, but based on the separate focuses of blue light, at least twelve emergency vehicles must have been nearby. Searchers would be yelling in hope of a response from those lost. He felt his hands at his ears, but they made no sound. He continued to yell, unaware of his volume. The pain that shot through his throat was hopefully from the strain of vocal chords and not of lungs damaged by smoke. After a deep breath, the faint smell was more clear.

_Chlorine. Pool._

That was the unknown smell. That fact seemed to be important as to how he got into his current position. Also, there was something about John. This triggered something, there was something very important about John too. His brain was not wholly convinced the why was as necessary as getting out of his current state. All around it was being unhelpful and his head was starting to swim. His throat was burning and he thought his heart was going to burst.

_Hysterics. I am panicking. Where is John?_

Sherlock closed his mouth and stopped the silent screaming that had been holding his throat and stealing away his oxygen. He moved his focus to deep breathing and tried to search for John in his memories. Was John at the pool with him? Was he standing nearby? But there was nothing. Best to assume he was here. He would never go to a pool on his own whim. Surely John was close, people stay close to those they know in a disaster. He focused on his surroundings. If he could deduce what caused this, hopefully he could infer where John would be as well.

The deafness was likely caused by some sort of explosion. The locker lay face down on top of him. His feet pointed toward a wall with a large hole and a board punched through it. Water soaked the ground near the wall, but further beyond his hair the water lessened. The force of explosion was from the direction of his feet and water was between him and the explosion. He cataloged other debris, but nothing seemed to give him a hint toward where John might be.

The searchlight had stopped to gleam into the room. The searchers must have heard his hysterical outburst and be on the way. He had to be quicker. John was hidden and he had to find him.

_Shower curtains piled near head. Blue latticing to left. Tarp at right near right. Pool cover, actually._

Sherlock could not make out which would contain Watson. When the searchers reached Sherlock, he needed the right place to attack. It seemed reasonable that if he motioned at one and John was not there, they may abandon the search if he could not communicate that his friend should be here as well. Something nagged him that this was not nearly so realistic, but the possibility fed his panic.

None of them had a distinct Watson shaped lump below them. None of the objects were telling him the secret of where John lie unconscious. Reluctantly, he checked for wet spots too dark to be water. Wincing at the mental image of John receiving similar treatment to the locker wall. Smaller beams of light moved around the room.

_Torches. No time. _

They were here. The searchers were here and nothing helped him toward John. None of the worthless debris was telling him anything. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the locker. The torches were illuminating the destroyed area, but his eyes were growing wet and obscured his view of it. No more data to take in. Vision was useless to him anyway. His throbbing head would not properly process the given data. Maybe he had been knocked his head too hard when being thrown backwards onto the tiles.

_On my back._

His own body was the important clue. He lay on his back. If he was running, as he must have been to not be near the blast, why was he facing the blast which pushed the locker onto him? John must have been behind him. A face obscured his vision. A fire fighter's mouth moved and a light was shone in his eyes as the weight of the locker lessened. As his body was being dragged out, he tried putting light weight on his legs. They didn't seem to be broken. Fractured, maybe, but he could make a few steps. When the searchers went for the stretcher, Sherlock tore towards the pool cover.

John had to be here. He had to be behind him in fleeing. John had to be near the door. John would have done something stupidly heroic leaving Sherlock to run ahead. To turn when he realized John was not at his side. His hands ripped away at the pool cover only to uncover more floor and debris. Rescuers moved around him. Grabbed at his shoulders. He would not be deterred. It was a large pool. There was so much cover to move and pile behind him. The search only revealed more empty floor devoid of John.

Sherlock began to crack as he ran out of blue pool cover to search and found he could not get back up. Most of his weight fell to his arms. He could not pull himself to the other side to search. John would be lost. They would pull him away and that would be it. The burning in his chest went beyond smoke inhalation. As Sherlock broke down, another part of his brain was still fumbling in the background. It was quiet in a different way, now. There was not more frenetic movement around him. Where were the rescuers? No one tugged at his shoulders. Light from the torches no longer illuminated the area around him. Blinking away the moisture at his eyes he looked toward the movement to his right. Behind the blue pile he made in his frantic search, someone occupied the emergency stretcher.

_John._

He was not sure if the word made it to his lips. The world was going blurry. His eyes were heavy and his body was filling with warmth. An empty syringe above his nicotine patches were the last thing Sherlock saw before everything became warm and light.


	2. Chapter 2

_**I Want to Know, Too**_

Dreams and Memories

Brightness is something that plagues hospitals. Glowing red against closed eyelids. Bouncing off every white surface and assaulting open eyes. Too much light for someone who has been spending an unknown amount of time sleeping. Especially to wake up in a panic only to find that tubes and contraptions are holding your body to a bed. Trauma center, indeed.

Sherlock's eyes were shifting between widening with panic and wincing at the gleaming light. Moments ago, an octopus with thin arms had been holding him down and shoving needles into his arms. The dreams he had been skating through before waking up in the stark white hospital room had been both bizarre and familiar. His memories seemed to have been twisted by the dreams. There were many alarming memories that seemed too fantastic to be real. The faint sound of the heart monitor mimicked the racing of his mind. It was the appropriate soundtrack as he sped through his thoughts separating his dreams from memories.

Mycroft on his knees. Dirty suit must have worn for days. Mouth covered with red duct tape. Body lit with the red dots of hidden snipers.

_Dream. Delete._

Mrs. Hudson wrapping an old blue scarf around his neck before allowing him to scout out his new neighborhood. The blue wool smelled wonderfully of pipe smoke.

_Memory. File._

Slowly approaching an alarm clock time bomb with a gun. Rushing, instead, toward a black demon. Red lights falling like snow. "Move quickly. I'd hate to have to break my favorite toy," the demon shrieks.

_Dream. Delete._

Amazing? "What do people usually say?" Freak. Psychopath. "Piss off."

_Memory. File._

Turning around to see John at the door. No wall to protect him. Why was John not beside him? Being a hero? Too much sound.

_Memory. File._

A girl heard crying over a phone in an art gallery. Comets.

_Memory. File._

First kiss experiment. Beautiful girl. Witty. Front door. Leaning in. Too moist. Invading mouth with tongue. Feels alien. Leaving her in the doorway. Final kiss experiment. Personal social experiments rarely ended pleasantly.

_Memory. Delete._

The taste of Mrs. Hudson's scones when forced to eat every couple of days. Even after having shot some initials into the wall.

_Memory. File._

Running through the streets with a cripple after a black cab. So close to a killer. Failing to make the taxi connection. Wasting a decent mind due to boredom with life. Should have left pill alone. Was I right?

_Memory. File._

Playing the violin on a balcony. Night sky is filled with red stars. Someone encircling waist from behind. Placing their chin on my shoulder. Final kiss experiment was also final intimacy related experiment. Ridiculous.

_Dream. Delete._

Girl in lab. Molly. Looks like kiss experiment girl. Less make-up and longer hair. Eyes dilate slightly when she looks this way. Blushes when I look up. Must curb this.

_Memory. Should keep memories of work relations. File._

Solving a murder involving Stonehenge. Killer left path of models of Stonehenge using rocks or found items near where next victim would be taken.

_Interesting dream. File._

Molly again. Asking me out to coffee. Divert. Place order, instead. Comment on lack of make-up to further divert. Need person working with to be focused on the task at hand.

_Memory. Keep._

John with very bloody hair on a stretcher. Being attended by white robed, winged people.

_Dream. Delete._

Molly's new boyfriend leaving his number. Girl does not realize he is gay. Must preempt possible emotional disaster. Could be potentially disruptive to her work.

_Memory. Keep._

John being pulled into a whirlpool slowly sinking into dark water.

_Dream. Delete._

The rush of nicotine the first time trying two patches at the same time. Mind racing in several directions. Finding the answer quickly, but having to walk Lestrade through the solution at a snail's pace.

_Memory. File, delete._

John being hit by a burst of water through a doorway. Being thrown backwards to the ground. Pain.

_Memory. File._

Pointing a gun at Molly near the ocean. Jumping off a cliff after her.

_Dream. Delete._

Sorting through the memories and dreams gave Sherlock a sense of control on the situation. The heart monitor echoed this by playing a slower tune. Recent memories floated just beyond his reach. Words and feelings but none of the details he was accustomed to. John and Molly were connected to important things, but exactly what he was not sure. He believed John had been in danger and would likely be in a state similar to his own. Molly was connected, but probably not hospitalized.

Finally, Sherlock started taking in his surroundings. Lestrade must have gotten involved in whose care Sherlock was under. By the way his appointed doctor signed his care sheets on the wall, he had been told often he was great, but did not believe it himself—he thought he was the greatest. The doctor was wrong. He carried his own expensive fountain pen. However, some of the sheets had corrections in the head nurse's pen, a humble stick pen. Probably advertising some prescription drug for depression as the writing was subtly perky in a defiant way. The doctor would try to sound important with jargon while the nurse followed behind making corrections. When the doctor came in Sherlock would ignore him and speak with the head nurse. Intelligent people hated being ignored. Sherlock hated being ignored.

From the CT scans peaking from his folder, Sherlock deduced he probably had some temporary head trauma. Certainly concussed, but luckily his frontal lobe seemed in order. It had been a while since he had demanded to get an MRI of his brain out of curiosity. However, from his comparison to the one currently hanging next to x-rays, his left temporal lobe seemed to have a slightly lighter spot. Nothing serious from the pictures visible to him, but it would cause some temporary retrograde amnesia, which fit his damaged memories. The x-ray of his head showed that all his cranial bones appeared to be intact.

Sherlock's left tibia was no so lucky. A nasty line trailed across the white bone in the x-ray of his lower leg. He found his foot movement restricted and knew if he moved the sheet, there would be a bulky cast to greet him. Laying back, Sherlock sighed and wondered when he could get someone in here to tell him how John had fared the exploding pool and if he had been through as many machines as Sherlock.

His charts had been filled recently by the doctor. Maybe that was why no one was racing in to check on the person waking up from a three day sleep. Only one of those days had been drug induced. Sherlock wanted to get some answers for the missing or scrambled memories. When the doctor or nurse came and heard about his faulty memory, they would demand he rest to heal. Unless he could convince them that it would be in their best interest as well that he be released. To his right was a clicker with a button on a chord for the nurse's station. Luckily for Sherlock, he had been leaving a trail of annoyed people ready to kick him out the door since primary school.

He was able to click the button 52 times before a blond woman in pink scrubs busted into the room.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you, Spirit the Fire Dragon, for being my beta reader. She has some good stories you should check out too-after reading this, of course. I recommend "If I Die Young" and probably some tissues.**

_**I Want to Know, Too**_

Current Events

Who was the current Prime Minister? Who was the previous Prime Minister? Who was his current MP? Anyone who was an MP? Who was the most recent member of the royal family? Failing at politics, who was Beckham married to? What country won the last world cup? Who was the current Doctor?

Sherlock's insufficient answers to questions such as these had him sitting up and scowling at that same first perky blond nurse three days later. Despite his objections to relating famous people to his brain health, Sherlock was being held "for observation". His habit of deleting this information as soon as he heard it was difficult to kick. Efforts to reclaim famous names right after deletion led to much confusion. When the doctor or nurses would discuss their exasperation over his lack of knowledge of current events, Sherlock would strain to hear the answers and store them away. Victoria something was not Prime Minister and had not been in the royal family for a while.

John found this hilarious. That and he poked fun at his potential brain injuries.

"If you hadn't of turned around while running like an idiot, you could only had a broken arm. Just wait 'til they ask you about the sun."

Though John was teasing Sherlock, he was visibly relieved when Sherlock was able to reply to his banter. When Watson had first walked in, Sherlock noted his knit brows and a certain lack of breathing. After Sherlock began complaining about having to trifle with meaningless information, John's face relaxed and one side of his mouth raised into a half grin. Something in Sherlock's own chest loosened at the sight of John's crooked smile. The nurses he bothered had eventually reassured him that his flatmate was well, but seeing him in a calm state actually set him at ease.

John's visits were short and attended by Lestrade. Though Lestrade did not believe that John and Sherlock were directly responsible for the destruction of the pool, he had to keep them apart so they could not discuss the events before the explosion. They were the only people found at the scene, and Lestrade could not dismiss them until Sherlock's memory checked out. The remains of the explosive were sent in to be analyzed, but as no one was killed it did not get the highest priority.

The broken arm wasn't really the only wound John had. There was a cut on the back of John's head. Staples held the gash together as John dipped his head to show Sherlock his wounds and allow his to deduce what happened. Lestrade had gotten angry with this game, as it was a form of sharing information. It was too late, as Sherlock saw the head wound to come from something metal with a small lip and a hinge, likely from a clasp on the blue pool cover John had been found under. John's broken arm was boring, just from trying to catch himself from his fall.

Today, John was arguing with Lestrade over a scone he had deposited onto a bedside tray. Mrs. Hudson had sent her love and baked goods to her two renters in the hospital. This scone was all John had saved for Sherlock. Lestrade did not want to allow any unapproved foods until Sherlock was in a better state. Sherlock tried to reassure him that carbohydrates were beneficial to brain function, but the detective inspector bent forward and pocketed the scone.

_Sandalwood aftershave. Dropped matchbook. Tie in a new knot._

Sherlock's desire to continue to get visitors not wearing scrubs kept him from blurting out that Lestrade probably wanted the scone for himself. The detective inspector was wearing a different, cheaper aftershave and a package of hotel matches had fallen out of his pocket when he put away the scone. He must have taken up real smoking once again. Lestrade was having some time away from wife and from the look on his face when John produced the scone, he missed her baking. Sherlock envied the thought of real tobacco smoke.

"Out. Patient's family only at this time."

The doctor walked into the room and shooed out Lestrade and John, as they were not related, they were not supposed to be there. However, Lestrade's badge had initially gotten him past the diligent head nurse who now stood behind the doctor. It had helped that the nurses wanted to curb his annoying inquisitions into John's well being.

Dr. Pazzi, Sherlock's new neurologist, began looking over the most recent charts. The head nurse would take notes as he evaluated Sherlock's current state. Dr. Pazzi was an older man who was brilliant with a drinking problem. However, the alcohol abuse was not what led the nurse to need to take notes and make corrections. The corrections were being done by the head nurse, Sherry, to cover up the slow onset of Alzheimer's. It was a particularly sad ailment to be attacking the top neurologist in London. Lestrade had made demands for Sherlock to be in the care of a top physician as potential witness testimony had been locked in his head. Mycroft had done the actual string pulling.

A vase of flowers lay on the table beside Sherlock's bed. He examined the lilies from Mycroft as the Doctor asked him the same questions he had been posing every day:

"How do you feel?"

"Any unusual pains?"

"Who has visited you today?"

"Do you remember what you talked about?"

"Any unusual pains?"

_Again. Repeated questions. My memory in question, really?_

Then the similar annoying celebrity questions would start. Sherlock drawled out the answers mimicking Doctor Pazzi's own boredom with the questions. Dr. Pazzi would have quit his job if he was not so afraid being at home alone all the time. Sherlock noticed some days he wore his old wedding ring. Other days he observed him unconsciously touching the pocket it likely resided in. His wife had passed as Sherry would frown piteously at the ring when he wore it. Sherlock would hear Sherry's questions coming from the hallway where she was checking to make sure the doctor was not at the stage of his disease that he had forgotten.

These deductions were the most interesting bits of brain activity Sherlock was able to experience. Much of the day Sherlock was trapped in his own head staring at whatever slight changes had taken place to the room itself. Mostly, he wanted nicotine. As more time passed without one, he was becoming more irritable.

However, once he recognized the doctor's ailment, Sherlock backed off from his aggressive patient stance. The staff could not be annoyed into releasing him and Sherry was extremely likable middle-aged red head. She reminded him of Mrs. Hudson and even brought him an occasional scone with his hospital issued meal. Sherlock would enjoy it even more next time knowing that it would anger Lestrade. Also like Mrs. Hudson, Sherry remarked on his thinness and had forced at least three pounds on him through five scheduled meals a day. Sherlock's sharp responses may have also been lessened due to issues with his broken leg. He had remembered running on the partial fracture leading to a clean break. Now, a recent fall had left him in great pain-after he had attempted to get up and walk on it yesterday. He'd hoped to throw on his coat and waltz out.

_Probably tore my ACL. Too bad; couldn't hide it. More time in this damned place. Surgery probably needed, too._

Sherry had been trying to distract him from his pain until the doctor returned. She hoped lending him a few books she said she scraped together would cheer him up, even if they were some trashy vampire novels. He was told the books were very popular with young teenage girls recently. When he started complaining about the teen romance to Sherry, she claimed that she had never read them. A light blush crept over her cheeks as she looked down at his charts, nervously flipping through the pages. Sherlock knew she was lying and that the books likely belonged to her. The books were rough looking used paperbacks. She probably did not want to read them herself but had bought them with a book club she had mentioned before. Despite her misgivings she had liked them. The books must have been loaned to other nurses to have them all on hand to give him. They were more enjoyable when he imagined Sherry reading them with a book club of other older ladies.

"Morphine."

The word caught Sherlock's attention from the lilies and his fondness for over middle-aged women who brought him scones. Sherry was filling out a form in the doorway as Dr. Pazzi gave her specifics on volumes to be allowed over time. It was about time they did something about that pain. He was starting to believe the blond nurse and her compatriots were getting back at him for being so annoying for the first twenty-four hours. The nicotine patches were not allowed in his room, though John had tried to bring them in once in a book of logic puzzles. The book was a disappointing collection of dull "Who did Sally send her gift to and what did she send?" type puzzles or, worse, they were dull little blocks of nine you were supposed to fill with all the digits. Sherlock had built a reaching device out of the paper that was confiscated within a few hours. He was not allowed any more gifts after that.

Mostly he spent the days alone, not allowed even to watch the television as Lestrade did not want his memories tainted by the media. John's few visits were restricted to less than ten minutes. The lack of stimulation was driving Sherlock very stir crazy. Even Mycroft's visits began to be something Sherlock looked forward to as a highlight of his day. Though he had not particularly tried morphine before but he had tried the poppy drug it was derived from.

Sherry and the blond nurse, Jill, now returned to his room rolling in a complex IV drip. The blond seemed quite pleased with his new drug regimen, no doubt thinking this would yield a quieter, gentler Sherlock. Though he had backed off, he was naturally what John described as an "annoying git". John was kind enough to also mention how brilliant he was from time to time, though. Jill had balked at his mention of her pregnancy with one of the ER doctors and told Sherlock to mind his own business. When she asked him casually about his observations of the other nurses, privacy seemed less important to her.

The working of the contraption was explained to him, though he could deduce he was given a button and that the time intervals discussed between doctor and nurse meant it would only be dispersed within given intervals. Sherry was telling him about a surgery on his leg tomorrow and his likely release within the week as he tapped at the button she handed him. A familiar warmth spread up his arm. Jill's devilish smirk was the last thing he saw that he was certain was real. After that, things began to defy logic.


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you everyone who took the time to review or added this story to your alerts. No pressure, right?

_**I Want to Know, Too**_

Friends Draw Blood

_The walls are staring at me._

It was an uncomfortable thought but the room was fairly daunting. Sherlock was in a bright yellow room with strange walls. The patterns of the wallpaper seemed to move around him as he lay on a shaggy blue rug. It felt as though the individual rug fibers were wriggling beneath him.

_Wallpaper pattern streaming. Looks like eyes. Strange dream._

In the back of his mind, Sherlock was fairly good about knowing when he was dreaming. It was usually in the details, or lack thereof. The space around him was shaped like a room, but he could not estimate the actual size of it. As he turned his head left to right and surveyed the room, one would be a large eight meter room and the other a smaller four meter room. At the next glance they would switch.

The sudden appearance of tall trees shooting up around him was disorienting as well. The bright yellow room was soon replaced with a dark wood.

_Visibility: ten meters. No moon._

Dreams would annoy Sherlock in the way that they did not follow the logic to which he was accustomed. They did not flow along with his deductions as the real world did. Voices came from around him. A figure passed through the trees in and out of the range of visibility. Only a silhouette was visible and difficult to distinguish from the shadows. Sherlock tried to gather as much information from these brief appearances.

_Same basic shape. Only one person. About 1.8 meters tall. Male build. Feminine walk._

The figure melted behind one tree and appeared meters away. The shape did not pause and did not close the distance between them. Sherlock attempted to do so himself, but the shadow still only stayed at the edge of visibility. The trees around him changed, so he knew he was moving within the forest. He broke into a run with even less success as the figure disappeared. Two slow pivots around his left foot revealed empty shadows. Just as he stopped to listen, something hit the whole of his back and knocked the breath out of him.

_Should be on the ground. Hard to breath. Or move._

White arms held his own in place. The body they were connected to was pressed to his back. A body which had breasts. He moved his head, but could not see the face of the woman holding him captive.

_Grip isn't human. More like machinery. Holding me for her mate? Can't see face._

A laugh came from behind Sherlock's head. The breath of it lacked warmth against his scalp. His captor touched his right ear and his body stiffened. Sherlock liked his personal space, especially his head. Things that close were difficult to observe.

"I guess I should not play with my food so much."

_Grip released. Arms gone. No visible movement between._

Sherlock listened for movement. No leaves or branches rustled. No twigs snapped. No one was breathing within his observable radius. He began a slow turn trying to see where the woman could have gone. After a full turn, Sherlock faced the woman he had visualized for the insecure heroine of Sherry's vampire novels.

_Brown hair. Pale complexion. Molly Hooper. Red eyes. Determined. Not timid. Smirking. Pain. Can't breath. Blood. Heart slowing._

The stars were a brilliant white and the moon a bright red. Sherlock lie among the leaves which he was soaking with his blood. Adrenaline kicked in and the pain subsided. The shallow sound of his breath and his heart beat were his only company under the unfamiliar sky.

He should have expected the one word to seep through the forest to him. A woman's scream, "Moriarty."

Movement stopped and everything became black. His nose was hit with the smell of hospital: iodine, bleached sheets, and disinfectants. Sound was babbling in the distance. He was awake now, but his eyes felt too heavy to open. He started slowly shifting his limbs, phalanges first, as he tried to distinguish the sounds.

_Two voices. Arguing. Frustrated voice. Arrogant. Very sure of self. Mycroft._

"Well he doesn't exactly have anything interesting to look forward to: white walls and scrubs all day. Of course he's hitting that button continuously...and morphine? He's susceptible... has a history...What's the point of medical files..."

_A woman's voice. Associated with scones. Too soft. Can't distinguish words. Arrogant voice back. Sweeter. Trying to get his way._

"Look, it'll be restricted. No data. Text only. He's not a talker."

_Female sighing. Sherry? Sounds resigned. Mycroft always gets his way._

The voices became quieter. Mycroft and Sherry must have walked away to secure him a phone. Or a computer.

Thoughts of the dream he had awoken from returned in the voices' absence. His dreams had been strange before the morphine but they had consistently had an ominous tone. Believing that his brain was trying to work out one of his problems even in sleep, Sherlock decided to stop deleting any remnants of dreams when he awoke.

For a few quiet minutes he examined a pink rose that had been added to Mycroft's lilies. Patiently, Sherlock waited for the bit of information he had worked out to find its way to his fore brain. The rose was not the over engineered freak that could be found by the dozen around Valentine's Day. It was a true rose with only five delicate pink petals. Around its stem was tied a small note. Sherlock reached for it and received a slight prick from a thorn of the rose. He blotted the blood under the words: To Ease Your Rabid Temper ~JW

_Dog rose then. Terrible joke._

Sherlock and John had trampled on a patch of them while waiting outside the window of a young woman they were investigating. It was a long night and John had told Sherlock more than he could delete about the dog rose. The pink flower had been used by doctors at one point to attempt to cure the ailments from rabies in humans.

_Molly's Jim. Gay Jim. Jim Moriarty. _

The fact was obvious once his brain opened the thought to him. Molly had been important because it was she who Moriarty used to get close to Sherlock. The pretty, but timid young victim. It had not occurred to him to worry about her health, but pieces of memory were coming back to had escaped the explosion at the pool. Moriarty was her boyfriend. She would be in danger now. He groaned at this oversight. If she was harmed and due to Lestrade not allowing John to jog his memory, Sherlock was going to raise hell. How would he get into the morgue without Molly? He put down the morphine button and traded it for the one to call the nurses. Sherlock was very good at raising hell.


	5. Chapter 5

_**I Want to Know, Too**_

Mad Texter

_I'm not rabid. Your rose bled me. -SH_

Sherlock was sitting in his bed clicking the keys and ignoring Lestrade and Mycroft standing beside him. Molly was fine. Jim had not been able to be contacted to deny John's story. The yard was just now really being set out to find him. This disappointed Sherlock, but was distracted because Mycroft had handed him a phone that was meant for geriatric patients. It would only call the police and two other connected numbers: John and Mycroft. One number as far as Sherlock was concerned.

"Yes, you're welcome Sherlock. So glad I could make your stay better. Really it was nothing to hunt down a service that the hospital and the charming detective inspector Lestrade would allow." Mycroft tapped his umbrella in frustration at the end of every sarcastic sentence.

_Thorns are meant to keep away pests. -JW_

Mycroft and Lestrade continued to make word noise as he smiled at John's text. Words about Sherlock's current medical condition and even his drug problem. Sherlock paid just enough attention to catalog their true opinions while they believed him to be completely ignoring them. He felt slight surprise at the sincerity of Mycroft's concern over his brief allowance of morphine. Not Mycroft's political fake sincerity he so often heard, but tones of genuine concern.

_They aren't working for Mycroft and Lestrade. -SH_

Sherlock allowed a smirk at his own cleverness. Rather, he was smirking at the idea of getting a laugh out of John. It had been two days since the surgery on his ACL, which he had missed thanks to the wonders of morphine. Lestrade had insisted on a less powerful and less addictive painkiller. The pain was still there but it was dull and his mind was clear. John's visits had also been stopped while he was in recovery. Though he faked it for Sherry, he had not slept since the new medicine. All of this made the time between morphine and the cellphone seem like a long time.

_Get your Fairy Godmother to fix that for you. -JW_

Sherlock liked the idea of Sherry being a fairy godmother. She had brought him chamomile tea and scones when he complained about difficulty sleeping. After tea, he had pretended to take a nap to reassure her of her nurturing skills. She was just the tool to get the two men, now trying to one up each other on who had the more long suffering experience with Sherlock. Just one tap to the nurse before returning to the screen of the cell phone.

_I may have to play Rip Van Winkle. -SH_

_Are there any cases of sleep texting? I have no internet access. -SH_

Once the question hit him, it was maddening to have to wait to know an answer he should be able to research himself in a matter of seconds. Now he had to wait for John to slowly perform the search himself. This did not even account for the time possibly spent responding to texts to reassure the doctor that he really did want an answer.

Sherry appeared at the door to be a brief distraction from the nagging question. She purposely walked through the conversation between the two men to alert them to her presence—they had completely ignored her knock. Mycroft stopped telling Lestrade a story about Sherlock outing a gay boy in grade school that was sending the heart monitor into a fit. Sherry put down the chart she had just copied his data onto and bent down to his head.

"Why don't you pretend to take a little nap again while I get these gossips out of here?" She whispered for his ears only.

Sherlock smiled and sent a final text.

_I'm serious. I expect a full report ASAP. -SH_

_Are you serious?-JW _

The John's response to his original request text returned just as he hit send with the other text. John would think he had lightning fast reflexes. He flipped off the phone and slid under the covers to play his best Van Winkle. Sherry informed them that their presence was increasing Sherlock's blood pressure. She had to reassure Mycroft as she escorted him out that Sherlock was not tired from any new drugs. With a final wink at Sherlock, she shut the door to his room.

The heart monitor had been set to silent, unless within a certain range. So now the room was very still and quiet. He imagined John cursing him while sitting at a computer searching articles on sleep texting. Informal sources first, such as blogs and internet magazines. Then he would roll his eyes at the thought of Sherlock demanding to know his sources and begin to seek out more professional journals and newspapers. Sherlock felt the tiring pull of sleep for the first time since the morphine. If he had felt any of the warmth, he would have suspected Sherry had slipped him more of the drug.

Sherlock rolled to face the phone which sat next to the lillies. John's original hand written text lay beside it. The little dot of blood had dried to a dark red. The little dog rose was beginning to look wilted as it drooped down over the side of the glass vase of the lilies. The sunset was visible through his window. The sunlight hit him directly in the face. Sherlock closed his eyes against the light.

Sherlock unclosed his eyes to see a still well lit sky.

_A noon sky._

"It looks like that Dr. Watson is the most effective drug for Mr. Holmes."

"I'd say he's already addicted."

Sherlock sighed in annoyance of the laughter coming from Anderson and Donovan at their own jokes.

"What's so funny?"

The Detective Inspectors voice came from beyond the room. Anderson and Donovan's shoes scraped the floor as they likely scuffled to make distance between them.

"Sherlock took in quite a breath a moment ago. Maybe he's finally waking up."

"About time, too. 16 hours is a bit much."

"Oh, shutup. We had to shoo nurses away to get him this sleep. They wanted to wake him up for blood tests not an hour after he finally went to sleep. We've been beating the wolves off; he seems to only remember anything after a long sleep."

Sometimes Lestrade could surprise him. After only three occurrences Lestrade had managed to see a pattern. However, Sherlock suspected the morphine had been a helper as well.

"Sherlock."

Lestrade was leaning over him and touched his arm. Sherlock began to fake a slow, tired awakening.

_Deep breath. Slight groan. Flutter eyes. Wince at light. Groan again. Open one eye._

"Detective Inspector. Fancy meeting you here."

Sherlock made movements to sit up.

"Stay down. They're going to bring you lunch soon. While you're eating, see if you have anymore information about that Moriarty character."

_Lie down and eat?_

"Thanks, I'll do that."

Sherlock waited until Lestrade had shooed away the two watchmen, no doubt volunteers after learning of Sherlock's mini coma. When the door shut, he snatched the phone up. The bright screen greeted him with several minutes of reading material from John.

_You should try getting some sleep. -JW_

_Turns out there is some sleep texting. __Suspected real sleep texting is mostly babel though. __Anything meaningful is thanks to usual sleep amnesia. -JW_

_Damn, these kids need to sleep, too. __This study says they exchange text every hour or so during night -JW_

_Are you finally asleep? The Fairy Godmother cast a spell on you? - JW_

_Dropped off some scones from Mrs. Hudson. Resupplied your flower. -JW_

A new crisp dog rose stood in place of the wilted one he went to sleep with.

_Ha. Love you too, sleep talker. -JW_

Sherlock scoffed. He could count on one hand the number of times he had said that as an adult. Most of them had been lies.

_It's not nice to lie to people in hospitals. -SH_

John must have been at lunch, because the answer was quick. The blond nurse, Jill, had brought in a tray of food.

_Awake? Can't even deceive you in text format, eh? -JW_

People had a bad habit of stating the obvious. Was it not John that just sent him information that sleep texting was not possible? Sherlock had lectured him enough about talking about the weather. That had not stopped him. No need to waste time texting about stating the obvious. Jill told him to put the phone away so he could eat and reminded him that food was necessary for living and other obvious facts. He put on his best charming smile and proceeded to spoon the chowder she had brought. The smile caught her of guard and she blushed and quickly left. Sherlock picked up the phone and began his reply.

_Knowing you, not a big lie. What did I say? -SH_

Sherlock had little experience with being exposed to other people while sleeping. He had few roommates in his life and no lovers. No one was around to test him for sleep talking.

_I told you about Mrs. Hudson's scones. __You said, "I love scones." Made Mrs. Hudson VERY happy. -JW_

The thought of Mrs. Hudson's scones again made the chowder taste even blander. He did love those scones. He took a sip of the bitter tea and dry toast that came with lunch. Hopefully Sherry would sneak him another tea time today.

_I suppose my secret is out. I'll be home in a few days. __I need to get after Moriarty, the police are doing a pathetic job.-SH_

_They didn't trust my vague information. Your site was cryptic. Why didn't he kill us?-JW_

_I want to know, too. Why a bomb? Why not just use the snipers? -SH_

_These are things we will address soon. And scones. -SH_

_My experiments better not be out of place. -SH_

_Don't worry. I have not done any cleaning since my return. -JW_

Sherlock was tired of the hospital. His memories needed a little extra push during his REM sleep to come back to him. A non restricted phone was needed get in contact to resupply him with what the doctor denied him. On his way home he would get a nicotine patch. Even if he had to rip it off Lestrade's arm.


	6. Chapter 6

Sorry, I let school make me go crazy...at least Sherlock is naked at one point?

**_I Want to Know, Too_**

Solace in Death

Desert stretched out for kilometers in front of Sherlock. He had begun to ignore the images of Moriarty that kept popping up around him. The mirages dissolved away when he approached them and led him off track. The thirst was becoming unbearable and Moriarty was beginning to appear in front of fountains and pools. As if in response he felt rain hit his head. When he looked up there was neither a cloud in the sky nor rain that still dripped on his upturned face.

Sherlock awoke to the feel of cold water droplets moving down his face. His eyes were greeted with the sight of John holding a metal bucket filled with water and...

_Ice?_

John's face was twisted into an almost psychotic grin. The look in his eyes had Sherlock sitting up with a start.

"What, pray tell, are you doing with that bucket, John?" Sherlock assumed his usual emotionless mask while he met John's fiery eyes.

"Four months." John's healed arm gave the bucket a shake and the ice chimed against the sides to emphasize his words. "For four months, you have been sitting on that couch on your computer, watching TV, eating, and shooting the wall. It smells like a nest in here and you've filled the floor of the living room around the couch with little experiments that are adding to the stink. I believe you've been washing and changing clothes. So you're not a complete mess, but if you don't get off the couch and start going to physical therapy _this second_, I am going to start cleaning by drenching you in this ice water. _And _I'm going to burn that couch."

Veins were popping up John's neck he had never noticed before. A quick glance let him see his laptop out of the potential splash zone. Sherlock had not really noticed the experiments building up as he had little open islands he could step through. As they had lost his interest, they became invisible to him. Now that John had brought them to his attention they radiated out from the couch at least a meter in all directions. He did not remember constructing at least half of them. Sherlock turned his attention back to John and saw anticipation for a reply on his face. It was a time desperately needing tact.

"Wouldn't the water make the couch difficult to light?"

The ice water bath was a reminder that Sherlock was so poor at tact when facing an obvious flaw in logic. John grabbed him by the legs and dragged his shivering body to the shower. Hot water flowed above his head on his place in the floor of the shower. Outside the door John assured him he could come out in thirty minutes. His voice was strained and it sounded as though he was placing a very heavy object in front of the door.

John was wrong that he had not left the house. They had gone to get his cast off two weeks ago, the break had healed quite quickly. He was supposed to be doing physical therapy to help his ACL heal as well, but that sounded boring. John did not know that three times he had left in the middle of the night to stock up on necessities. The nicotine patches seemed to last longer while he was not working on a case. He had been scouring the internet for more information on Moriarty, but even after he remembered the full name and past he discovered in the last case there was little more to be found. Sherlock glanced at the cabinet where he hid his other stash of "thinking fuel" that was far less legal than the nicotine patches. However, the drowsiness it induced would probably get him caught by John in twenty minutes. So Sherlock resigned himself to taking a shower.

The shriek from John was worth the pettiness of being passive aggressive. As promised John had moved the heavy object out of the way and opened the door.

"Cover yourself up!" John yelled from behind the quickly closed door.

"Not my fault you forgot to include towels in your master plan." Sherlock replied in his usual bored tone, though he was quite enjoying getting back at John for the bucket of water. He stood cross armed facing the door in the same full frontal pose that had greeted John.

Sherlock could track John's movement through the house by the direction and volume of the flow of words he hoped Mrs. Hudson wasn't around to hear. Finally, the door opened a crack and John's hand appeared with a towel. As Sherlock dried himself off, John's curses moved back to the living room.

When Sherlock returned to the living room himself, he was freshly clothed in a suit and blue shirt rather than his usual sleeping clothes for the past seven weeks. Of course his sleeping clothes were just worn out button up shirts and beaten up black slacks. The living room was spotless and mysteriously devoid of a couch. John drank tea and read a paper from an armchair that had been blocked off by the experiments.

"Ready to go? Your appointment is in forty minutes." John looked at him over the paper betraying nothing about the missing couch. He was getting better at concealing things since living at 221B Baker Street.

"Let's go get a cab. May I use your cane?"

"The doctor gave you a set of crutches." A little anger slipped into John's eyes.

"I don't want to look like a cripple."

Sherlock forced a straight face as he saw the veins return to John's neck. John opened his mouth for a reply then closed it. He then closed his eyes and took a deep breath before getting up from his chair. As John made his way to his room for the cane that had not been used in some time, Sherlock grabbed the crutches leaning on the wall and made the way down stairs. He had used John's cane on his late night trips and had left it outside. The usual blue scarf was around his neck when he heard John tell him it was lost and to wait a minute.

_Need to get out. So bored. Morgue. _

As Sherlock's taxi pulled from the curb he saw John pop his head out the door of their apartment. He might have just told him he was not going to go to physical therapy,.However, his leg was not healed enough get away from John actively opposing him. Sherlock's phone chimed.

_Where the hell are you going? You need physical therapy. -JW_

_Mental therapy -SH_

Once the appointment was missed Sherlock would tell him where he was. Until then he would try to find something interesting to work on to get his mind off Moriarty. Surely there was at least one interesting dead body waiting for him in the morgue.

The smells of formaldehyde and strong cleaners hit his nose as he walked passed laboratories on the way to the morgue. Through the window Sherlock could see three bodies.

_Man. Sixty years of age. Banker. Yacht and wine enthusiast. Diabetes. Female. Twenty-seven years of age. Model. Shoe enthusiast. Alcoholic. Vegetarian. Molly._

The morgue tech looked up and saw him at the window. She jumped and dropped the cutting implement she had been using on the banker into his open cavity. Once she noticed this, her eyes widened and she almost touched the splatter mask with her bloody gloves. Pink spread over her face and she waved him in. Molly cursing under her breath was the only sound in the autopsy lab. She placed the bloody scalpel onto her tray and began removing her gloves and splatter mask. Molly was not wearing any make-up and her hair was pulled back in two messy pigtails.

"You're up and about now? What's it been? Five months?" Her hands nervously went to smooth out her hair.

"Two weeks and 4 months. Counting the hospital time, thanks to Dr. Pazzi." Sherlock bit his tongue to hold off on questioning about the bodies. He needed to wade through the small talk to stay in Molly's good graces to have free reign in the lab.

"Ah, yes. I read a few papers of his. He's brilliant. No cast? Your leg already fixed up?"

"Yes, well. I've been drinking a lot of milk." He put on a charming smile and hoped for it to end.

Molly's eyes crinkled in a laugh at his stupid joke.

_She laughed. Ask about dead bodies now?_

"Oh, you're probably here about the possible double murder, aren't you?" She pulled gloves back on and turned back to the man.

"I'm looking into it." He said vaguely. No need to mention that he had only started looking into it six minutes ago. Sherlock was just glad the subject had turned to dead bodies. He preferred those to warm, chatty ones.


	7. Chapter 7

_This quite diverges from Season 2, as you have no doubt noticed. I had quite the hiatus between chapters 6 and 7. I was planning to wait until I saw season 2 to see if I could make my story and that one mesh. *One year later* Doesn't look like it, but I'll finish this anyway. There will be a distinct influence of Season 2, though. Sorry for the wait. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Here's another chapter. These characters still do not belong to me._

_**I Want to Know, Too**_

Arranging Lunch

Sherlock left the morgue without a new case. The "double" murder was only one murder and one terminal case of stupidity. For the sake of keeping up the goodwill gor access to her lab, he pointed out that there should be a shoe with a broken heel. Molly confirmed. He stated that there was an expensive red wine bottle at the scene. Molly confirmed. It was suspected poisoning, possible residues found on wine glasses. She confirmed, but the toxicology report was still on order. The woman appeared to have suffocated, but had no bruising around her neck. Molly confirmed. Trauma to the back of the head, but not deadly. Molly confirmed.

"There will be a strawberry lodged in her throat. When you get back her blood work you will see she was intoxicated. She fell down because she was not sensible enough to wear shoes appropriate for a wet deck while making a drunken get away from the body of the man she had just poisoned." Molly had stared at him flustered for a moment before starting to write notes on his quick analysis.

He answered the follow up question before she could ask it. "Strawberry seed caught under her nail. Index finger tinted from stirring poison into wine with her finger. She will have trace amounts of the poison because she will have instinctively licked off the wine, rather than waste it, in the later glasses when she was becoming intoxicated. Bunions and a twisted foot."

Though Sherlock thought this sufficient Molly opened her mouth a second time after finishing scribbling notes. Of course, it was a curious thing to do after getting away with murder.

"She thought she was being clever by eating the rest of the strawberries. If anyone linked her to it, she could say that their evening had been over and she had left while he was still alive. The shoes were new. A gift from the banker. She wasn't used to them. They were too big. Or rather the right fit. She wore shoes too small. Conscious about the size of her feet. Nothing else happening? Nothing… interesting?" He scanned over clipboards.

"How did you know he was a banker?" Molly's question made him cringe. Had they not had this conversation before? Bankers had been in previous cases. Were they not paying attention? He had opted to ignore her question and told her to have a wonderful day.

Now Sherlock was sitting in a restaurant waiting for food and his dining companion to arrive. The people at the table beside him were growing annoyed at his constant stream of text notifications he was ignoring. The woman had given him a sneer of a smile while asking him to silence his phone. Sherlock told her that she was correct that her husband was sleeping with his brunette secretary, but that she should be checking his pants for burgundy lipstick stains, not his collars. That was why he had switched to dark under garments recently. After that, the couple were too busy to notice the continued chiming of his mobile.

John nearly walked by his window seat at the table. Sherlock gave him a little wave. The obscenities were muffled by the double paned window, but Sherlock could still read them on his lips. Sherlock looked away from the door and allowed John to get stopped by the hostess. John's instinct to be kind to strangers would cool him down. Then Sherlock waved and the hostess allowed John to came over and start spewing facts about the day they both knew in the form of questions.

_Sherlock, you didn't go to your doctor's appointment._

"Where have you been? You didn't go see Dr. Pazzi." John announced with tinted cheeks as he sat down.

"I was hoping for something interesting to work on. Getting a little exercise." He finished the water in his glass.

_Why weren't you at the morgue?_

"Why weren't you at the morgue? I was right behind you. Molly said you were there for ten minutes." The waitress came by and refilled Sherlock's drink while John glared at him waiting for an answer. Sherlock belayed it by taking a slow sip from his glass.

"Well, I had to do two minutes of pleasantries with Molly. It took four minutes to explain the thing to her. It should free up their time in case something more interesting comes in."

_That's not what I meant. Why haven't you answered my texts? Where were you?_

"That's not what I meant. Where have you been since then? Why haven't you answered my texts?" John's voice became particularly threatening at the last question. He had considered waiting and sending a text from the restaurant, but he was afraid John would not come.

"I have been here waiting for you. I knew you would walk by. I didn't need to text you my location." The waitress stopped John's crude reply about where Sherlock could stick his knowledge. Instead, John balked at the expensive crab with a side of saffron yellowed wild rice being placed in front of him.

_I can't afford this._

"I can't afford this, Sherlock." John hissed across the table as Sherlock cut into his crab cake.

"I noticed, but we're celebrating the end of my infirm." Sherlock slid John's wallet across the table. "Don't worry. I have done some long distance consulting while I was home bound. Something we must consider with less interesting cases."

'_Why did you have my wallet? I was stranded at the morgue.'_

"Why the hell did you take my wallet? I hopped into a cab and didn't have enough for a ride back from the morgue. I could have been stranded anywhere, Sherlock." John snatched the wallet from the table. Sherlock noted that John did not open it and check the contents.

"You wouldn't have seen me from a cab. You always keep enough money for a cab ride home in your pocket. In this case to the morgue. And where else would you have gone? I told you I was at the morgue." Sherlock noticed the couple leaving from the table next to them.

'_You could have just messaged me. Answered one of my texts.'_

"You could have answered any one of my texts. Normal people would just tell their friends to meet them for lunch. Or better, ask." John cracked into a claw with a little more ferocity than was necessary. Sherlock scoffed at 'normal people'. He had thought they were passed that kind of comparison.

"Normal people don't discuss the possibility that one of their friends nearly had them killed." Sherlock hailed the waitress and asked for tea while John waited impatiently for him elaborate. When the waitress left and he did not continue John leaned across the table slightly with raised eyebrows and an expectant expression. Sherlock looked him in the eyes before saying nothing as he finished his food. It was so tedious trying to catch people up constantly. With a heavy sigh, John also returned to his food without a word, but it was plain to Sherlock that the list of their acquaintances was being run through for possible malice.

John's internal laughing over the entirety of Lestrade's division wishing him ill made the corner of Sherlock's mouth quirk slightly. John was a wonderfully easy read and he said what was on his mind. This was one reason Sherlock could stand his constant presence. Sherlock was not having to continuously distinguish between what John was thinking and what he was saying. Having to wade through the little lies normal people were constantly filtering into conversation was exhausting. John could do this with others, but he had dropped such pretenses with Sherlock.

When tea arrived for them both, John thanked the waitress and finally asked the question that had been on his face since they had finished their meals, "Who?"

Sherlock put sugar into his tea. "You did not even consider her. I am a little disappointed."

John's head moved backward slightly in shock. Thankfully, it was not that Sherlock had known he was considering their friends. It was the person that came to his mind.

'_Mrs. Hudson?' Really, John?_

"Mrs. Hudson? Sherlock, she doesn't have to kill you. She can evict you for any number of reasons any time she pleases."

It was physically painful to hear John jump to the absolute wrong conclusion. John's text alert went off. Reflexively, John checked it and then glared at Sherlock. John put the mobile in Sherlock's face. He knew what the screen read.

_Wrong -SH_

"Really, Sherlock? Who else?"

"Come on, John. Who else is there? Why might I have not told you that we were meeting?" Having to drop that kind of hint for John disappointed Sherlock.

'_Molly?' _The thought from John was deafening, but also relieving. Sherlock was beginning to worry about possible brain damage John might have had in the blast.

"Molly? Why would you think she is trying to kill you?" John squinted at him in disbelief as thoughts such as _'But she's in love with you. She nearly passes out every time you are in the room ignoring her.'_ quickly flitted across John's face. Thankfully, he did not voice them.

"Tried. Failed. She read papers by my doctor. She said he was 'brilliant'." This had been a big tip off to Sherlock.

'He is brilliant. He is a leading doctor in his field.'

"So? He is the leading doctor in Neurology. How did you know she recommended him?" John put his palms down on the table. As if his face was not broadcasting the disapproval loud enough.

"She had read his papers. His most recent papers are not so brilliant. He has undiagnosed Alzheimer's. His recent papers were published by his name alone. The debates about them are kept quiet, but they are voluminous on the Internet. And Lestrade had his mobile stuck in speaker phone mode for two days."

'_That's all?'_

"You are accusing Molly of trying to kill you because she read papers from the top Neurologist in London and recommended him for you." John did not ask this, but stated it with disbelief. He still did not grasp it.

He had not seen the surprise on Molly's face. It was not the surprise of seeing an acquaintance after long absence. It was of seeing someone you expect to be elsewhere. It was the way she pronounced Dr. Pazzi, like she had been corrected by him personally on the pronunciation of the 'a'. He had heard this several times in the hallway with Lestrade. Then there was the nagging feeling about her connection to Moriarty.

Sherlock requested the check, but was informed that the woman in the table next to him had paid his tab and left her thanks. He collected his things and rose to leave.

"That's it?" John asked. Sherlock could see John's slightly open mouth in question, though he had already walked passed him.

"For now."

John's sigh was not one of resignation. It would not be a silent cab ride home.


End file.
